


The Battle of Cabrita Point

by Meglifluous



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Drinking to Cope, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Other, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 14:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meglifluous/pseuds/Meglifluous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Flint is on an atypical drinking binge and Billy Bones is sent to check in on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Battle of Cabrita Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musemm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/musemm/gifts).



> So this was supposed to be a Billy/Flint piece for a Blinter I admire--I tried really hard, but Billy just would not cooperate and the memory of Thomas kept Flint tacking toward the OTP. In the end there's a tiny unheeded opening, a lot of drinking, a lot of grief, some unexpected warmth and a history lesson. Someday I'll post all the aborted attempts at trying to get them to hook up as a fanfic gag reel, but for now, pull up a chair and let the Captain tell you a story... ;-p

**1714**

Billy kept one hand on the rigging as waves crashed over the bow of the Walrus. He was already soaked head to toe from the rain, but had learned to turn his head away from wave impact to keep the salt out of his eyes. He didn’t mind being wet or cold, but it troubled him not to be able to see. As it was, the night had already swallowed the horizon line, obscuring the separation of sky from sea. The occasional flashes of lightning in the distance only made the blackness more complete. Although he had managed to retain some visibility on deck thanks to the judicious placement of hurricane lanterns, Billy couldn’t help noticing that, as happened so often under the orders of Captain Flint, their ship seemed to be once again hurtling into complete oblivion. 

“Hoist the trysail!” he shouted, gesturing to the third watch rigger. Beside him, Dooley frowned.

“I don’t like this, Billy. Proper ship-killer, if ever I seen one!”

Billy didn’t dignify his crewmate’s protest with more than a soft frown, keeping his eyes on Logan as the rigger worked the sail line.

“Can’t think why we don’t just lie ahull,” Dooley continued.

Billy sighed and turned to face him.

“We’ll be fine as long as the storm jib holds.” The wind snatched Billy’s words away the second they left his lips but he hoped his expression would discourage further comment. It didn’t.

“We should vote for an all night in, too! Watch is useless in this kind of pitch!” Dooley pretended to squint out into the darkness and pointed with great exaggeration. “Look, there! That bit of total blackness is maybe slightly blacker than that bit! No, wait, never mind…it’s just more blackness…”

Billy smiled and caught sight of Mr. Gates emerging from the officer’s quarters. “Spot Logan,” he instructed Dooley, indicating the rigger before patting Dooley’s shoulder and then carefully crossing the water-slick deck. Though the men couldn’t always be trusted with the equipment or the Captain’s orders, Billy had to believe that they would always look out for one another. The brotherhood that held the crew together was the driving force of his morality; without it they were just waterlogged thieves. He stopped at Hal’s side, towering above the stout quartermaster even as he stooped slightly to better hear him.

“De Groot’s convinced we’ve moved from Tropical Storm Warning to Biblical Flood,” Gates announced with a wry smile.

Billy grinned at his friend and mentor. “It’s just a little water. We’re up to it.”

Gates eyed the lean boatswain, who was dressed as usual in form-fitting, pocketed trousers, a thick belt, and a lightweight linen top, now soaked through, shirt sleeves rolled to the biceps and buttons undone at his throat to showcase several thin strands of beads and a shark’s tooth hung off a brown leather chord. Gates had an identical necklet, as did the Captain. Gates himself had purchased them in Port Royal during a rare shopping spree. He’d gotten one to the Captain first and hadn’t bothered to correct him when Flint had subsequently insisted to Billy that Gates had killed the shark in question with his bare hands. Billy now wore the tooth with a kind of reverential awe, a fact that amused Gates and delighted the Captain. 

“Listen, Billy,” Gates leaned in a little closer to make sure the boatswain could hear him over the downpour and the crash of waves. “Cap’n’s having a bit of a rough go of it. I’ve been in to check on him a few times, but he’s getting sick of my face. Thought maybe you could give a try.”

Billy’s blue eyes were wide and his mouth had settled into a frown somewhere between confusion and worry. “What’s wrong with him?”

Gates waved dismissively, trying to reassure the younger man. “Been hard at it for a while now, which, as you know, is not his usual cup of tea. Not sure if he started drinking because he was upset or if he’s upset because he started drinking, but he’s a good deal more than three sheets in now.”

Billy blinked. That _was_ unusual. So unusual that Billy couldn’t recall ever seeing the Captain drunk. He’d seen him drink, but nothing that had so much as dulled his sharp wits, much less cast him into moods of despair. Not that their Captain wasn’t moody. Flint had a deadly temper, and also a quick, mischievous sense of humor. It was an alarming combination that left Billy perpetually off balance. The boatswain shivered and told himself it was the cold. “What do you want _me_ to do?”

Both men turned to watch a thin stick of lightening dart out at the horizon. The thunder that followed was still too far off to be heard over the agitated churning of the sea.

Billy turned back to Gates, who shrugged lightly. “Listen if he wants to talk. Talk if he wants to listen. Maybe see if you can get some food into him.”

Billy couldn’t hide his dismay. Though he wouldn’t have said he was unfriendly with his Captain, he also wouldn’t have said they were friends. He regarded Flint with a complicated mixture of intrigue, awe and terror, and to save his life he could not have guessed how—or even if—the Captain regarded him. Flint was a mystery, a man with no past and a singular, burning vision for the future. Billy had confidence in the vision but he couldn’t quite make himself trust someone he knew so little about. “And what if he wants to be left alone?” he asked Gates.

Gates chuckled and patted Billy on the back. “If he kicks you out, leave before he kills you.” Noticing Billy’s frozen stare, Gates laughed again and ribbed the boatswain with his elbow. “That was a joke, son. Cap’n’s got his demons, but I’ve never known him to take ‘em out on anyone but himself. Just…make sure he knows he’s not alone out here.”

Billy furrowed his brow and nodded. He and Gates had often discussed the strange effects sailing could have on the psyche, particularly a tendency to become mentally adrift after being physically too long at sea. Billy couldn’t imagine such a fate befalling the sharp-witted Captain, but if a man on his ship was drowning, Billy was going in after him, whether or not there was any actual water involved. Gates offered him another encouraging smile and then turned his scowling attention to the riggers. “What are you lot just standing there for? Clear the scuppers—and mind that gaff before she takes yer head off, you dog!”

Knowing the deck was in good hands, Billy crossed to the stern and hesitated outside the Captain’s cabin. _He’s just a man. Like any other._ The thought hadn’t even finished forming in Billy’s head before he had dismissed it. Nothing about the captain was like any other man Billy had ever known. He took a deep breath, letting the air expand in his chest, and knocked.

If there was an answer, Billy couldn’t hear it. He opened the door quietly and stood in the entrance way, suddenly conscious of the water dripping off of his skin and clothes to pool beneath his boots. The heavy velvet curtains that bordered the stern windows had been pulled and the Captain was at his desk, slumped low in his chair and framed by a halo of candle light. The wavy red hair he normally pulled back had tumbled in an unruly froth across his forehead and his chest rose and fell as if he were still catching his breath after a fight. His eyes narrowed into a squint as he looked Billy up and down, otherwise motionless. Billy counted three empty bottles in front of him and wondered how someone so still could radiate such menace.

“Captain? Everything all right here?” Though nearly a foot taller than the Captain, Billy always felt small in Flint’s presence. It wasn’t a feeling he liked.

The frown on Flint’s face shifted from one side of his face to the other as his green eyes, which had made their way down to the water below Billy’s boots, snapped up again. Billy felt a jolt flash from the back of his neck down his spine as the Captain’s eyes suddenly bore into his own. The intensity of the stare made Billy hold his breath, but it seemed rude to break it off. The boatswain did his best to hold his Captain’s gaze and waited for Flint to speak, but Flint said nothing.

Exhaling, Billy closed the door behind him and tried again. “Mr. Gates sent me to check on you. Is there anything you need?”

Flint stirred at that, cocking his head to one side and finally breaking eye contact to rake his eyes across Billy’s wet form. When he spoke, his words were thick and slurred.

“Gates sent you?”

Billy nodded and moved forward toward the desk to busy himself with a bit of tidying. As the boatswain drew closer, Flint’s expression softened.

“ _For me_?” 

“Sir?” Billy tucked the empty bottles into a bucket hanging portside of the desk to keep them from rolling every time the ship pitched. When he turned back to the Captain, he found Flint thrusting a still half-full bottle in his direction.

“Rum?”

“Nah.” Billy answered reflexively and then thought that he should have accepted the bottle from Flint, if only to get it away from him. Flint’s frown reappeared, somehow taking up more than the expected one third of his face.

“Not much of a drinker, are you, Billy?”

Billy thrust his hands into his wet pockets and looked away, wondering how much to say. Opting for honesty, he was nonetheless unable to tear his gaze from the floor. “Haven’t had good luck with it, Sir. Once I start I can’t seem to stop and then…Well, I don’t like losing control. Or forgetting things.”

“You can forget things? Just by drinking?” Billy was fairly certain the Captain’s questions were sardonic, if not outright rhetorical, so he remained silent as Flint tipped back his head and drained the bottle he was holding with one long pull. “Well, fuck, bring me another.” The Captain wiped his face with one hand and waved the newly emptied bottle recklessly over the floor.

Billy leaned forward and snatched the empty from his Captain’s hand. “I’m gonna go ahead and say you’ve had enough.” After adding this latest casualty to the collection of empty bottles in the dangling bucket, Billy snuck a glance at Flint. The Captain’s eyes had grown dim and misty and he seemed so miserable it almost hurt Billy to look at him. Billy was trying to think of something to say when the Captain started speaking again, his eyes now focused on the desk before him.

“D’you know what today is, Billy?” It was Thursday, but Billy intuited that that was not what the Captain meant. He sat down in a chair across from Flint, hunching over the solid, ornate desk that stood between them, and tried to follow the Captain’s oration. “Nine years ago today, responding to a dispatch from the commander of Gilbrata–which was under siege by the French at that particular moment in time–Sir John Leak directed a fleet of twenty-three English, eight Portuguese and four Dutch ships to Cabrita Point.”

Billy glanced at Flint’s desk, looking to see if the Captain had any naval histories out, but Flint, as usual, appeared to be speaking from memory. Though he was still slurring his words, the Captain had begun gesturing with some animation and was clearly warming to his topic. He did love a good story. 

“At approximately oh-five-thirty, Leak sees five French sails coming out of the bay. These were the _Magnanime_ , the _Lys_ , the _Ardent_ , the _Arrogant_ and the _Marquis_. Or _les_ all of those, since they’re French.” Flint pronounced the French article with obvious derision, but didn’t smile. “So there’s our battlefield: thirty-five to five. Arguably, Leak didn’t know their precise number when he set out, but he must have had some intelligence. Even if the commander of Gilbrata had exaggerated the attack, those numbers seem a bit overbearing. Cowardly, even.” Flint paused and locked eyes with Billy, a sneer settling across his lips, as if daring him to suggest otherwise.

“Sounds like wasted resources,” Billy said carefully, agreeing. “That was still during the war with Spain, yeah? Couldn’t have been the only incident requiring attention.”

Flint went quiet, his eyes still locked into Billy’s, but with a knot in his brow that lessened the intensity of the gaze and gave Billy the feeling that he was thinking about something else entirely. “No,” Flint said finally, dropping his gaze to the desk again. “No, it certainly wasn’t.” He was still for a long moment, lost in thought or memory, and then abruptly returned to his story.

“The French ships begin to make their way toward the Barbary Coast, but Leak puts his fleet in pursuit, and the winds are with them. Finding that they’re being gained upon, the French ships stand for the Spanish coast. This chase goes on for hours. But at oh-nine-hundred, Sir Dilkes in HMS _Revenge_ , with the _Newcastle_ and _Antelope_ in attendance, as well as a Dutch man-of-war, I seem to recall–they get within gunshot of the _Arrogant_. And what can the _Arrogant_ do? It strikes.”

The Captain relayed the news of the _Arrogant’s_ strike with such sadness that Billy frowned in confusion. Normally, any news of a non-pirate ship striking its colors seemed to cheer Flint. Not because he ever shied away from a fight, but because the abject terror motivating most strikes seemed to appeal to his sense of justice. Did the Captain have French blood in him? It was possible, of course, but Gates had never mentioned anything of the sort, and looking at the man with his piercing green eyes, muscular, compact form and ginger hair and beard, Billy would have guessed Scottish or Irish to be more likely. Perhaps the Captain just felt compassion for any ship as badly outmatched as _Arrogant_ had been. Or perhaps he was still talking about something else all together.

Flint continued. “By thirteen-hundred, _les Ardent_ and _Marquis_ have been taken by two of the Dutch ships, and the _Magnanime_ and _Lys_ are driven aground west of Marbella. The _Magnanime_ , in which De Pointis has his flag, runs ashore with so much force that her masts go by the board. The French end up burning her, and the _Lys_.”

The Captain stopped again and looked slowly around his desk, presumably in search of another bottle. Billy waited, taking advantage of the rare opportunity to study the man he sailed under. When he thought of Flint he always imagined him in motion—all arched brow and flashing eyes, growling voice and thudding boots—but sitting across a desk from him with the Captain dulled by drink, Billy had time to memorize the long oval of his face, the proud nose which had obviously withstood multiple breaks, the sturdy jaw and high cheekbones. And hands. The man had long, elegant hands all the more compelling for the scars and bruises covering them. When Flint didn’t find a bottle in any of his desk drawers, he turned his attention back to Billy and spoke with desperation lacing his voice, trying to drive home some point Billy had not yet guessed at. 

“It could hardly have gone any other way. They were never going to get away with it. The forces brought to bear against them were more than they could have possibly anticipated and, once faced with them, they struck their flags and burned their ships. It was a stunning victory for Leaks.”

It was clear that the story had deep personal resonance for the Captain, but Billy couldn’t find a moral in it or any bearing on their current situation. Nonetheless, he hung on the Captain’s every word, appreciative of the tutelage and perpetually astonished by the sheer amount of information Flint had at his fingertips. Mr. Gates had told him that the Captain read rapaciously, but that didn’t seem to fully account for his genius. He was by far the smartest man Billy had ever met, and he shared his knowledge generously when he wasn’t especially irritated by the ignorance of those around him. Billy was starting to worry that he was supposed to be memorizing the names of all the people, places and ships his Captain had just mentioned when Flint spoke again.

“Nine years ago today,” he repeated, circling back to the beginning of his story. He was quiet for a full minute and when at last he spoke again, his voice broke mid-way through the sentence. “The battle of Cabrita Point. And also the day that the only thing I ever truly loved in this world was taken from me and utterly destroyed.”

A flash of light from outside lit the murkier shadows of the cabin for a split second before a low, soft rumble of thunder asserted itself over the external clamor of rain and the sea.

Billy’s brow furrowed as he tried to formulate a response. He knew the Captain was under the influence of a great deal of alcohol, but even so, he had never seen Flint so defeated and vulnerable. It made him look like a different man entirely, a man Billy would have liked to know. He wished that there was an actual adversary in the room to shoot or strangle on Flint’s behalf, some physical, immediate way of protecting him, some excuse to put his body between him and danger or otherwise demonstrate allegiance. But it was just the two of them, and Billy had no idea how to mitigate the Captain’s obvious grief.

“ _A stunning victory for Lord Alfred Hamilton_ ,” Flint growled suddenly. Though the Captain’s words were still slurred with drink, all of his customary intensity had returned, savage and unpredictable. The monster was back. Billy, who had not until that moment noticed the extent to which he had begun to lean forward in his seat, sat back blinking. All the vulnerability in the Captain had vanished, the grief replaced by a seething rage the boatswain knew to be literally murderous. He felt himself break into a sweat, realizing that he could not remember anyone named Hamilton from the story the Captain had just told and silently cursing himself for not paying better attention.

Flint had gone still again, the vicious sneer on his face slowly relaxing into a frown. Billy waited to speak until Flint’s breathing seemed to even out.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat, Captain? Or maybe you’d like to lie down for a bit?”

Flint slammed a fist against the top of his desk and then leaned back in his chair and slowly closed his eyes, the fist he’d left on the desk gradually unfurling into an open palm. He muttered something about having been warned and then went quiet and still.

Billy swallowed uncomfortably and shifted in his seat. He wondered if the Captain had passed out—he’d seen men in the mess in similar positions, sleeping off their drink. Flint’s breathing was measured, but his brows were furrowed and his jaw was tight. It didn’t look like an expression of repose. And yet without those piercing eyes, without the rich voice that lulled men’s fears or stoked their rage, depending on what he needed from them, Flint looked like an entirely different creature. Someone more human than mythical, more wounded than worrying.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Billy said the words so softly they were almost inaudible, but he could tell Flint had heard them when the Captain’s eyes slowly opened, his eyebrows knotting.

“What did you just say?”

Billy shrugged slightly, embarrassed. Flint had just said he’d lost something, right? Wasn’t the decent thing to express some kind of condolence?

“The thing…that was destroyed…that you loved?” Billy frowned and smoothed the legs of his wet trousers with his palms. “I’m sorry that happened.”

Flint straightened himself slowly, looking, if possible, even sadder. He spread his hands across the desk, palms down, as if mirroring Billy’s gesture or anchoring himself, and stared at the boatswain with something approaching astonishment. “It’s been nine years and not one soul has said that to me before now. Not one.”

Billy swallowed, once again unsure of what to say. He glanced away from Flint and folded his arms across his chest, wondering idly what the captain had lost: a ship? A home? A person? Billy wasn’t sure it mattered. Every man on that ship had lost so much—that they had ever had anything to lose in the first place, that was what made them strong. Across the desk from him, the Captain dropped his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“You were exactly who he was imagining,” he said quietly. “Somehow he always knew you were out there, years before I came to sail with you, years before you were even a pirate…”

Billy shifted in his chair and frowned softly. This was another reason he disliked conversing with drunk men. They were terribly hard to follow. “Who did?”

Flint was staring through blinded eyes, seeing something or someone that was not there. The brass spyglass on his desk tipped and rolled across a map of the region as the ship pitched and Billy reached to right it, double-taking in surprise as Flint simultaneously grabbed his wrist and caught his gaze. The spyglass clattered to the floor. “Billy. Listen to me carefully, because I’m only going to say this once. You’ve always given me good counsel about the men on this ship, so let me tell you something about our boatswain.” The Captain was slurring again, his eyes glassy with drink, but his expression was solemn. “He’s principled and he’s dutiful and he’s _beautiful_ , and he’s one of the chief reasons I still believe in what I’m trying to do. He deserves fair terms. Stakes in the future. Land.” Flint released Billy’s wrist but tapped a finger pensively against the back of his hand before withdrawing his own. “And in case he was wondering, I do find it difficult to imagine that _anyone_ would deny him _anything_ he might truly desire.”

Billy squinted at his captain, lips parted, utterly confused. _He_ was the boatswain, surely Flint knew that? Was the Captain saying he could be the quartermaster? Because as much as Billy desired that—someday—it wasn’t properly in Flint’s power to grant it. Or did he mean that he should speak to Mr. Gates? Because of course he already had—they spoke of it often. How drunk _was_ the man? The Captain’s stare was so questioning and intense that Billy knew some kind of answer was required, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not parse Flint’s meaning. He just sat there scowling at him, feeling increasingly ill at ease. It wasn’t the first time Flint had made him feel foolish and Billy doubted it would be the last.

Flint stared for another long moment, his expression slowly softening with placid amusement, one corner of his mouth curling up in a tired, lenient smile. “I’m all right, Billy. Tell Mr. Gates to stop worrying.”

The Captain pushed himself up out of his chair then and went to the corner where he kept his wash basin. After pouring water into it from an earthenware pitcher, he splashed a little over his face. Billy unfolded himself from his own seat, unhooked the bucket over the desk with all the empties in it and carried it to the door to be taken out. When he turned around again, Flint was across the cabin, lowering himself into his hammock.

“Did you raise the trysail?” he asked. 

Billy nodded. “Figured the jib could do with some support.” 

Flint’s voice was muffled as he dropped his head against a pillow, but his tone was approving. “Steady as she goes, then, Billy. Steady as she goes…” 

Billy regarded the Captain’s prone form and then set himself to work, just as he always did when there was something that needed his attention. He rescued the rolling spyglass from the floor, straightened up the Captain’s desk, snuffed out all but one candle and finally walked quietly over to Flint’s hammock to pull a woolen blanket up around his shoulders. The Captain was snoring softly by then and Billy gazed down at him with a quiet frown of confusion, convinced he would never understand the man....


End file.
